“Well, you went to college,” she answered argumentatively.  “My sister Fairy is going now.  She’s very clever,—­oh, very.  You’ll like her, I am sure,—­much better than you do me, of course.”  Prudence was strangely downcast.

“I am sure I won’t,” said Jerrold Harmer, with unnecessary vehemence.  “I don’t care a thing for college girls.  I know a lot of them, and—­aw, they make a fellow tired.  I like home girls,—­the kind that stay at home, and keep house, and are sweet, and comfortable, and all that.”  Jerrold flipped over abruptly, and lay on the grass, his face on his arms turned toward her face.  They were quiet for a while, but their glances were clinging.

“Your eyes are brown, aren’t they?” Prudence smiled, as though she had made a pleasant discovery.

“Yes.  Yours are blue.  I noticed that, first thing.”

“Did you?  Do you like blue eyes?  They aren’t as—­well, as strong and expressive as brown eyes.  Fairy’s are brown.”

“I like blue eyes best.  They are so much brighter and deeper.  You can’t see clear to the bottom of blue eyes,—­you have to keep looking.”  And he did keep looking.

“Did you play football at college?  You are so tall.  Fairy’s tall, too.  Fairy’s very grand-looking.  I’ve tried my best to eat lots, and exercise, and make myself bigger, but—­I am a fizzle.”

“Yes, I played football.—­But girls do not need to be so tall as men.  Don’t you remember what Orlando said about Rosalind,—­’just as tall as my heart’?  I imagine you come about to my shoulder.  We’ll measure as soon as you are on your feet again.”

“Are you going to live in Mount Mark now?  Are you coming to stay?” Prudence was almost quivering as she asked this.  It was of vital importance.

“No, I will only be there a few days, but I shall probably be back every week or so.  Is your father very strict?  Maybe he would object to your writing to me.”

“Oh, he isn’t strict at all.  And he will be glad for me to write to you, I know.  I write to two or three men when they are away.  But they are—­oh, I do not know exactly what it is, but I do not really like to write to them.  I believe I’ll quit.  It’s such a bother.”

“Yes, it is, that’s so.  I think I would quit, if I were you.  I was just thinking how silly it is for me to keep on writing to some girls I used to know.  Don’t care two cents about ’em.  I’m going to cut it out as soon as I get home.  But you will write to me, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”  Prudence laughed shyly.  “It seems so—­well, nice,—­to think of getting letters from you.”

“I’ll bet there are a lot of nice fellows in Mount Mark, aren’t there?”

“Why, no.  I can’t think of any real nice ones!  Oh, they are all right.  I have lots of friends here, but they are—­I do not know what!  They do not seem very nice.  I wouldn’t care if I never saw them again.  But they are good to me.”